


Étude for Lovers

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24202708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: Love like theirs has never come easy. It must be held with gentle hands and treated with equally gentle actions, lest it break. It must be practiced, in fits and starts, and like any student grown frustrated with a difficult piece, left to sit in solitary for a time.---A post-series 2 alternate timeline in which Sherlock and John learn that loving someone takes practice and sometimes time apart.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 33
Kudos: 114
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	Étude for Lovers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PipMer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/gifts).



> “I’ve loved you for a hundred years.”  
> “Certainly fucking feels like it.”  
> \-- “Marbles,” The Amazing Devil

**I.**

London’s sprawl lies muted just beyond the walls of John’s flat, but Sherlock still finds it a comfort. The heartbeat of London acts as a talisman against the darkness lurking in his own chest. His ribs are a band of fire every time he breathes, his skin darkened by a collection of still-healing bruises. His knee twinges in sympathy and he stretches his leg out as best he can. The swollen joint gave him trouble up the stairs, but the pain was worth it. He is home-- or something like it. 

John’s flat is a horrid little thing. The walls, bare of any decoration, form a dun-colored cage around him. A sad, wobbly desk rests against one wall; a broken sofa, equally as cheap as everything else in the flat, offers little in the way of comfort. He shifts his weight off an errant spring and winces as every bruise and barely-healing bone makes themselves known. He breathes through the pain and focuses on learning what he can from his surroundings. Few possessions, and those in evidence are secondhand and cheaply made. What can be deduced from this? John has put down roots, but fragile ones. Everything about the flat screams temporary, despite the dust collecting on the window sills and the top of his tiny fridge and the stacks of discarded mail tossed on the floor next to the door. 

The John he knew would have sneered at the lack of care. Too much time spent in the military and in the medical field had drummed a precise cleanliness into him. His room back in Baker Street had been painfully neat, from the carefully shelved books to the sharp folds of his bed sheets. But this… this speaks of a man who doesn’t care much for his surroundings and has no interest in taking care of it. Something ugly--something like grief-- twists in Sherlock’s gut. 

He doesn’t have time to examine the feeling. He jerks to attention as he hears keys fumbling at the doorknob. He should have thought this out, planned better than this, not stupidly stumbled into John’s flat unannounced, unasked for. Too late now. 

The front door slowly opens as John shoulders it open and limps inside. His back is to Sherlock as he juggles a bag of groceries and his cane. Sherlock relishes the few seconds he gets to observe John unnoticed, though what he sees brings him little in the way of real comfort. John’s jumper hangs loose on his frame; not intentionally bought too large, no, it’s a jumper Sherlock recognizes. It once fit tightly across John’s shoulders. Now he swims in the fabric. His hair is different, too. Far greyer than Sherlock remembered and longer than he usually preferred it. And the cane-- the damnable cane-- John leans heavily on it, even as the tension in his shoulders scream discomfort, shame, loathing. John is an echo of his dismal flat-- uncared for, broken down. 

The knife in Sherlock’s stomach twists horribly. What has Sherlock done?

It’s just perceptible, the moment John realizes he isn’t alone. His back straightens, a rigid line of iron, and the grip on his cane tightens. He turns, ready for anything and god, is Sherlock thankful that John still has a bit of fight in him. 

The bag drops from his limp hand and a tortured sound struggles horribly in his throat. “Oh, Christ.” 

“John.” Sherlock slowly rises from the sofa and raises his hands in supplication. “I know this comes as a shock--” 

“Oh Jesus. Oh Christ. Fuck.” John stumbles backward and slams into the fridge behind him. A jar teeters dangerously on the top and crashes to the floor; the glass shatters like a gunshot. John flinches and drops to the ground like a puppet cut free of its strings. 

Sherlock forces himself still. The urge to rush at John is clawing away at his throat, but every line of John’s body screams stay away. Instead, he painfully squats out of arms’ length. He grits his teeth at the pain that flares in his knee. It’s nothing, nothing in comparison to the sound of John’s voice. 

“You died. Oh god, you died. You can’t be here. Fucking Christ, Sherlock.” John buries his face in his hands. 

“John, I know this comes as a shock--”

“Fuck you and your shock.” A hysterical laugh bubbles in John’s throat. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock. You’re supposed to be dead. I held your hand, oh Christ.” He wipes a shaking hand across his mouth, as if to scrub away the words tumbling from his mouth. His eyes screw shut in pain. 

“I can explain.” He edges closer to John. His palms ache to cradle John’s head and smooth his fingers along John’s brow until the tortured wrinkles there ease. He shoves the impulse down. 

““How could-- why-- you ruined me. You ruined me the day you died. You took my life with you. You fucking let me think you were dead. What could you possibly say that would change that?” Rage bleeds into John’s words, shock giving away to the need to fight. 

Sherlock weighs his words carefully. It would be easy to launch into the tale of Moriarty and snipers, of lies, of torture. So easy to spin a tale that sounds more fiction than fact, no matter how real the details are. But this is not time for tales, not here in John’s sad little flat that screams at years of being alone, so alone. No, John deserves the simple truth. The rest can come later. “I did it for you. All of it was to protect you.” 

The fight leaves John in a great whoosh. His shoulders drop and the red tinge of rage fades from his cheeks, only to be replaced by a grey fatigue. “Yeah, and who asked you to do that? Because it wasn’t me. I didn’t ask for this.” 

“I couldn’t tell you what was happening. You have to understand.” 

“I understand that the past three years of my life have been hell. You took those years from me, Sherlock. You took _our_ years without even a word of discussion.” 

“You must understand that I never meant for it to hurt you.” Not like this, never like this. Sherlock clings to the thought. For John. If not for him, then the past three years meant nothing. Every empty lonely night. Every terrifying moment, flinching from imagined and real dangers. Every bruise, welt, scar, and broken bone. Always for John. 

John stares at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. When he finally breaks the silence, a hysterical laugh bubbles up through his throat. “You selfish bastard, why wouldn’t it have hurt me?” 

“I knew, of course, our partnership was valuable to you. But a man of your strength, integrity, I knew that you would move on.” Sherlock berates himself even as he says it. Stupid, so stupid. “You had plenty of people you called friends, those that you could turn to and never seemed to have trouble with forming new relationships. While my loss would certainly be difficult, I had surmised it would be no harder than--”  
“Shut. Up. You surmised? God, you self-centered prick. You think I would just move on like you were nothing more than a friend.” 

“Yes, friends, John. Isn’t that what we were? You made that clear time and time again.” His own cheeks heat in anger. 

“I loved you,” John spits at him. It offers little comfort. The confession bites into Sherlock, a poison barb meant to kill, words made all the more deadly because it’s the first time Sherlock has ever heard him utter them. “You took away something precious.”

“I can give it back. _I_ am back.” A grave opens before him, yawning and waiting to swallow him whole. He clings to the pain in John’s voice. He can fix this. He can, if only John gives him a chance. 

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want you anymore.” John struggles to his feet, kicking aside his cane in his fury.

The air freezes in Sherlock’s lungs. His mouth moves, but sound has left him, choked off by the knot quickly forming in his throat. 

“Did you think I’d be happy to see you? That you would just show up and act as if nothing has changed? Everything has changed. Everything.” 

Sherlock stares up at him. A thunderous roar fills his ears. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Three years. Three years of fighting, of barely surviving, just to get back to London. To John. 

“Get out.” John grabs him by the lapels. “I said, get out!” 

He throws Sherlock toward the door and Sherlock stumbles. The door jam slams into his shoulder, but the pain of it is muted. He falls through the doorway and out into the hallway, scarcely catching himself from falling face first down the stairs. Behind him, John’s breath turns waterlogged. 

“I would have followed you, you know. If you had asked. If you had just asked me, I would have gone anywhere you needed.” 

Sherlock doesn’t dare look at him. “I couldn’t. I had to do it alone.” 

“Yeah? Well, you always said being alone protected you. Have fun with that.” The slam of the door echoes down the hallway. 

He doesn’t recall leaving the building or heading down the street. London’s roar batters at him, but now he pays it no heed. Dealers are a dime a dozen in London and as he sinks into a deep haze of oblivion, he thinks that until now he had no idea what true loneliness felt like.

**II.**

John kicks the door in, gun at the ready, but Sherlock is already ducking into the room. “You mad bastard, how about waiting for the all clear?” 

“Useless, John. If they didn’t come running at the sound of you kicking at the door trying to open it, I very much doubt they are still here.” 

John shakes his head and fights a grin. “Try? I got it open. Your little lockpicks didn’t manage that.” 

Sherlock waves a careless hand over his shoulder, batting away the clarification of John’s prowess. “Details.” 

John shines a light along the walls. Cold cinderblock lines the entire room; a sad layer of blue paint does little to brighten it. A cheap Ikea cupboard, with its doors misaligned, and an equally broken table are the only furniture in the entire room. An ancient radiator sits sadly along one wall. He shivers and pulls his coat tighter. 

Sherlock growls in frustration as he pulls the drawers on the table open, frantically searching its contents. “Useless! How am I to find him if they leave nothing behind?” He slams a drawer closed and scrubs a hand through his curls. 

“Steady. You’ll solve it.” John has only known Sherlock for a handful of months, but he is starting to figure him out. He has seen Sherlock manic, Sherlock depressed, Sherlock raging, and Sherlock cruel. But this is something new, a new piece that John turns over in his head, trying to place where it fits within the puzzle of Sherlock. There is a desperation biting at his heels and a tension to his shoulders that screams uncertainty. “Let’s go back to the flat. You haven’t slept in two days and I know you like to think you go without eating but you're just as human as the rest of us.” 

“Oh do shut up! If I had wanted a nanny, I would have brought Mycroft along.” 

“Oi! Just because you are frustrated--”

Sherlock throws a hand up and tilts his head. His eyes wander along the wall behind John. 

“Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to go hide away in your little mind palace after having a temper tantrum.” 

“No. Hush. Do you hear that?” 

John freezes and tilts his head. Part of him wants to bash Sherlock with his torch, but he listens: a distant honk from outside, the drip of water, and-- so faint he almost thought he was imagining it-- a soft sob. 

Sherlock dodges past him and darts down the hallway, John hot on his heels. He skids to a stop in front of another door and throws it open. A terrified cry greets him and Sherlock drops to his knees. John throws a light into the room, even smaller than the one they had just been in, and in the corner, curled up in a tight ball sits a little boy.

“Jamie?” Sherlock gently reaches out to the boy, careful to avoid touching him. The boy lifts a tear stained face to him. “You’re safe now. They are gone.” 

The boy wipes a hand under his snotty nose and eyes them with caution. “Are you the police?” 

“Of a sort, yes.” 

John muffles a chuckle. 

“Can I…. can I see my mum now?” 

“We will have to call her, but yes.” John fumbles with his phone and ducks out into the hallway to find better reception. He keeps an ear out for Sherlock, though. He has never seen him interact with children.

He half feared Sherlock would make the boy cry with a mean comment about his sticky hands and snot-crusted, tear-stained face. Sherlock surprised him, but then that is what Sherlock constantly does to John. Every time he thinks he has Sherlock figured out, John is left on shaking ground. As they waited for Jamie’s mother and Lestrade to arrive, the boy refused to let go of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock didn’t appear to mind and exhibits a softness to the boy that John has never witnessed before. Sherlock answered Jamie’s questions with an open, frank honesty, but never belittled him. John slid another piece into the puzzle: a gentle Sherlock, a kind Sherlock. It’s a sight made all the more precious for its rarity. 

A gentle smile tugs at the corner of John’s lips as he watches Jamie hug Sherlock. Sherlock freezes for a moment before spreading his large hand across the small boy’s back. Sherlock’s eyes lock with John’s and he quickly pulls away from the hug before handing Jamie off to his mother. As they are swarmed by police and emergency services, the armor Sherlock wears shifts back into place; he tugs the collar of his coat up and turns to leave. But John has seen what lurks beneath that cold facade: an uncertain, but driven man, who extends kindness to those who need it most. 

“Come along, John. I can hear your stomach growling from here.” 

And he follows, a warmness filling his chest at the wonder of this man. 

**III.**

He kicks Sherlock out of his flat and prides himself on not breaking down further in front of him. John spends the night slowly working his way through a bottle of scotch and tries not to think how he is becoming his father-- alone, angry, drunk, worthless. The burn of alcohol does nothing to stop his thoughts or the relentless march of his pathetic heart. He wants to rage at the world, kick and scream and make it bleed, but fatigue weighs him down. It's a constant companion now. 

He didn’t keep many things from his old life; too much of it held painful reminders of what he lost. Old habits, though, are hard to shake. He staggers across his small flat and fumbles with the drawer of his desk. He pulls out his gun. The weight of it used to be welcome in his hand, but now it drags it down. He stares at it, feeling nothing but an emptiness that stretches on and on into infinity. Static rings in his ears. When did everything stop making sense? When did his life cease to be a life at all? 

Long before Sherlock. Before the army. Before his father’s death. Maybe it was the moment his father raised his hand in anger at John for making too much noise at dinner. The epicenter of that moment reached far beyond its initial impact. The cracks in him have left him fragile. He broke so long ago and now he has nothing to hold the fragments together. 

Sherlock had helped put the pieces of his life into some semblance of order. He gave John purpose and showed him the world wasn’t colored in grey, but in vibrant, terrifying, marvelous colors. The first time he met him changed everything. Sherlock didn’t care how broken he was, because he was just as broken. They understood each other, fitting together in ways John didn’t know were possible. Sherlock gave him a purpose and a sense of worth. Oh, the world looked at him and saw some little puppy dog nipping at Sherlock’s heels, but it was never that. They had a partnership, each giving the other exactly what they needed. He thought he had mattered to Sherlock, that he had viewed John as just as essential to his life as Sherlock had been to his. 

The grip on his gun tightens and an anger builds in his gut. None of it mattered. Sherlock played him like he had played so many people before. A fake smile, fake tears. Lies built upon lies and in the end, John didn’t matter to him at all. Sherlock tossed him aside like a child now bored with a broken toy. Three years he was left alone in this horrible half-life, trying to put some semblance of a life together, but it was always doomed. 

The moment Sherlock died, a wall gave way in John’s chest, and with it, the carefully constructed facade he had presented to the world. He wasn’t a brave man; he was a coward, running from every relationship that hinted at intimacy. He hid behind a clenched jaw, a tight fist, and a stoic sensibility that bottled emotion and buried it deep. But Sherlock had wormed his way past all of that, dug deep into the earth that made John, and planted a seed of something greater than John’s need to fight. With him gone, John no longer had the strength to play at being a solider. Sherlock had ruined him. 

Love is an uneasy emotion for John; love and pain tangled horribly in his mind. But oh, he had loved Sherlock. He never could bring himself to say it back then, but John had loved him. It had never been enough, would never be enough. Sherlock died; no, left him. He had left John because John was not enough for him. _You break the things you touch, Johnny._ He always has. Never a good enough son or friend or lover. But god, he thought maybe this time he would get someone to stay. 

He sobs then, broken and empty, and grieves for a love that never mattered, for a life that never mattered. 

  
  


**IV.**

Peter Ricolleti’s capture is splashed across the front page and John can’t stop giggling at the sight of Sherlock in that ridiculous hat now on every major news site in England. That’s the first time Sherlock kisses him: to stop John from giggling. He tastes of beer and chips. John hums into the kiss and chases him across the table. He tangles his fingers into Sherlock hair, fisting the curls to hold him exactly where he wants him. Sherlock growls into John’s mouth and bites his bottom lip. The sharp sting of his teeth makes John grunt. 

John slaps his hand down on the table and swipes clumsily at the plates between them. One of them crashes to the floor. He snaps his head in the direction of the crash, only for Sherlock to half-climb onto the table to drag his attention back to his willing mouth. The beer spills. The food smears across their clothes as they grapple on the table, fingers working frantically at buttons and zips. The table creaks under their weight as John bats Sherlock’s hands out of the way and finishes tugging his own shirt free. He throws it over his shoulder, careless of where it lands. Sherlock’s shirt soon follows. 

Sherlock pulls him down on top of him. For all the cold exterior he presents to the world, Sherlock’s skin is hot under his wandering touch. The alabaster of his skin turns pink under John’s hands, and John's mouth waters. He follows the trail of his fingers with his lips and Sherlock bucks up against him. Pressed up against each other like this, John can feel the hard line of Sherlock’s cock in his trousers and something primal roars in him. He did this. He made untouchable Sherlock squirm and thrust against him. The headiness of it makes his head swim. 

Sherlock grabs a handful of his arse and squeezes, pulling him tighter against him. John loses his train of thought after that. He ruts against him, chasing pleasure. The table squeals across the kitchen floor, but neither of them pay it any mind. He hikes Sherlock’s thigh up, encouraging him to wrap his leg around John’s waist. John tugs him up exactly where he needs him, his cock pressed against the plush line of Sherlock’s arse, and lets him feel the way Sherlock has driven him just as mad. He comes hard, pants still on, and laughs his way through Sherlock’s orgasm. 

Sherlock chuckles, deep and free, into John’s shoulder as John tries to get a bit of mashed potato out of Sherlock’s curls. “We’ve made a bit of a mess.” 

“Best sex is messy sex, I always say.” John grins down at him. “God, I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.” 

“You’ve done more than that now, I think.” 

“Yeah, wanted to do that for a long time, too.” 

Sherlock looks up at him, eyes gentle. “Yes, well… I suppose it is fair to say I have loved you for equally as long.” 

John ducks his head. The word struggles in his mouth. Did he love Sherlock? Love has never come easy for him and even now at thirty-seven, he isn’t sure he has ever been in love. But this feels like love, like something new and precious. He kisses Sherlock again and hopes he understands what John can’t say. 

**V.**

Mrs. Hudson slaps him (deserved) and screams at him, before crying into the lapels of his coat. 

Lestrade hugs him (undeserved) and calls him a bastard. 

John ignores his texts (deserved, he admits, with a shame that drags at his shoulders). He sends them anyway and hopes for even a crumb of John’s attention. He hates himself for his weakness. But Baker Street is far too empty, his bed is cold and unforgiving, and every meal tastes like ash in his mouth. 

“You weren’t here, Sherlock. You didn’t see how he was.” 

It’s become the common refrain since he returned to London. Lestrade says it at a crime scene, while handing him a pair of gloves. Molly says it over a cup of coffee and with a sad little frown. Mrs. Hudson tuts it while cleaning the mantle. They all say it as both rebuke and advice. Give him time. He just needs time. Time, time, time. Sherlock would give him all the time in the world in exchange for even a moment of understanding. He doesn’t see why John needing time means he can’t be here, right now, with Sherlock. He isn’t asking for everything to resume as they were; he is simply asking for a scrap of attention. 

No one asks what it was like for him while he was away. No one mentions the scar on his hairline or the way he gingerly plays the violin because his wrist aches every time it rains now. Mycroft knows, of course, but Sherlock sneers at his gentle prodding and chases him out of the flat. The world is not so bad that he would willingly seek the companionship of his brother. 

Still it grates on him. No one asks. John suffered and Sherlock must know that, but Sherlock suffered, too. 

* * *

  
  


**July 8th, 3:38 PM**

You asked what I could say to 

change the things that happened.

The answer is nothing. 

Nothing I say can give you back those years.

But those years were ripped from me as well.

I did not give them gladly. 

I sacrificed them.

But if asked, I would do it again and again.

Christ, I didn’t miss this.

You self-important arsehole. 

You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to waltz 

back into my life.

* * *

  
  


Kindness has always been a stranger, an uneasy acquaintance. His childhood, despite John’s obvious assumptions, had not been particularly lonely. His parents had doted on him and showered him with praise. Not until his years away at school as a teen did he truly learn how different he was from other children. 

And he was. Too smart. Too awkward. Too strange. He was all sharp angles and equally sharp tongue and the world responded with disdain. No, his peers preferred a closed fist to a handshake and he grew to meet their hatred with his own brand of disgust. So he was not used to kindness or even understanding. 

He had told John the truth of it the first time they met. He was not an easy man to live with; he held no illusions. He was a drug addict, a genius, and a complete and utter arsehole. The world had told him as much and he learned that a biting remark quickly thrown was far easier than showing vulnerability.

Luckily for him, John was just as much of an arsehole. Oh, he hid it under bland jumpers, pleasantries, and an easy, lazy smile, but John didn’t have friends. He kept the world at a distance and bared his teeth at anyone who tried to get too close. A childhood of abuse and neglect left its mark on John. (He had never acknowledged it, but he had deduced this about John just as easily as he had his military career.) John guarded his vulnerability in much the same way Sherlock did. Both of them had armor to protect their soft bellies from the sharp daggers of the world. 

Perhaps that was the problem. They knew each other too well, knew where the cracks were in their careful facades. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**July 15th, 11:15 PM**

Yu bstard

I luvd yu

Loved

Dosn;t mattr 

I nevr mattred to yu 

...

You’re the only thing that ever did, John. 

* * *

He loved-- loves-- John. Loving John is the only thing that seemed to come easily to him in his life. He loved him from the moment John barged into their flat and shouted about fighting with a machine at a store. He loved him when John called him an utter cock while handing him a cup of tea. He loved him as Moriarty threatened to kill them both and John refused to back down. He loved him while a man broke five of Sherlock’s ribs with a rusted pipe and told him no one would care when his body was eventually dumped into an unmarked grave. And he loves him as he snaps awake from another horrible dream and searches for John in the dark bedroom.

Love like theirs has never come easy. It must be held with gentle hands and treated with equally gentle actions, lest it break. It must be practiced, in fits and starts, and like any student grown frustrated with a difficult piece, left to sit in solitary for a time. 

He loves him. God, he does. But it’s not enough. Not anymore. 

  
  


* * *

**December 18th, 1:37 AM**

You once called me a selfish man

and you were right to do so. 

I am selfish. I am self-centered. Self-defeating.

I destroy even as I try to fix. 

You also once asked for-- prayed for-- me to be alive. 

Forgive me, another sin in a long list-- I heard you.

I always do. 

You asked me to live and I will. 

But I must ask you to do the same: 

live, John Watson. Be happy. 

Marry, if you so choose, and pass

your stubborn smile on to your children. 

Be brave and angry. 

Rip apart life until you have mastered it

with the same swagger 

you have mastered so many things. 

But above all: live. 

I cannot imagine a world without a Watson in it. 

There I go being selfish again. 

  
  
  


I can’t. 

I just can’t. 

If you want me to be happy, leave me alone. 

Of course, John.

* * *

  
  


He leaves London. The city holds little interest for him now. Crime scenes no longer entice them with their secrets. After years of chasing criminals and being chased in turn, he aches deep in his bones like winter has set permanently into his joints. Lestrade tries to talk him out of it by arguing that forty-two is far too young to retire, but it’s a half-hearted argument. The years back have been long and while he has learned to ignore the absence of John at his side, the joy of cases spent with him casts a shadow over every new case he takes on. No, three years back in London without John by his side is long enough. He is done with torturing himself and waiting for someone who no longer wants him. 

He boxes up the last of his things, kisses Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, and deletes John from his phone. Their last exchange, now over a year ago, rings with a finality that aches just as bad as his joints, but he has come to live with that ache, too. Time to close that glorious (horrible), beautiful (destructive) chapter of his life. 

Besides, John married last spring. 

Far past time to move on. At least this time he is leaving London because he wants to. He is used to starting over. He’s done it before. Not the first time he has lived alone, but perhaps this time he will actually figure out what it means to live with himself with contentment.

Maybe he will try his hand at keeping a garden. 

**VI.**

“Lighten up, Dad, it’s just a year away.” Rosie’s laugh carries all the way downstairs. 

“Yeah, well, forgive me if I want to make sure my daughter has everything she needs while she decides to skip around Europe.” 

She stumbles down the stairs, arms full of boxes, and John quickly rushes up to grab one from her. His hip protests the sudden movement, but he ignores it anyway. If he ignores the way his body aches these days, he can pretend he hasn’t become an old fart. 

“What exactly do you think is going to be in these boxes that I can’t just grab at a store?” 

“Because, surprisingly, the army generally likes to kit its soldiers out better than what you can grab at a Tesco.” 

“Ah yes, your moth-eaten army issued socks. The King, I am sure, knitted the socks himself.” 

“Queen. Was a queen back then.” 

“God, you are old.” 

John smiles and removes a lid from one of the boxes. Rosie rolls her eyes and follows suit with her own box. They quietly pass the next few minutes shifting through old bits and bobs. Memories are quick to surface with each new item he unearths: his tags, a bit worse for wear these days. An old bottle of perfume, the contents long since evaporated. Papers, so many papers, good lord, why did he even keep all of this stuff? 

Next to him Rosie pulls out a stack of photos and shows him the top photograph. It’s of her mother, grinning as she stands next to John. Mary’s tongue sticks out while John crosses his eyes at the camera. 

“Lord, think that was just before we got married. Christ, did I ever look that young?”

“Mum’s pregnant. Oh my god, did you all have sex out of wedlock?” Rosie puts on a fake show of shock and horror. 

“You’d be surprised what we got up to before marriage.” He winks. 

“Gross.” The mock show turns into one of real disgust. She flips through several photos, mostly of her and her mother, a time-lapse flipbook of memories. She stops and furrows her brow. “Dad, who’s this?” 

The photo isn’t the best quality, but John recognizes it all the same. A wave of nostalgia crashes over him as he gazes at Sherlock’s face. He had managed to catch a rare Sherlock smile. It’s crooked and a bit awkward; it made the skin around his cheeks fold and his chin a bit wobbly, but it was one of the few things Sherlock couldn’t quite fake. No, his real smile was endearingly awful and strangely sweet. 

“That’s… that’s Sherlock. Someone I used to know.” 

“Oh. How come you’ve never mentioned him?” 

“I never mention my army buddies, either.” 

“Yes, but I am not holding their photo, am I? And it’s not like I didn’t know you were in the army. ”

“It was a long time ago. Before you or your mum. He worked with the police and I helped him with cases. Eventually, we grew apart. It happens.” 

“That’s it?”

“Yes, like I said. Long time ago.” John clears his throat and turns his attention back to the box in front of him. Still, he can feel Rosie’s eyes on him as she studies him. He steadfastly ignores her gaze and takes a drink of water.

“Were you lovers?” Her eyebrows slowly climb into her hairline. 

John chokes for a moment and coughs hard. “Christ. What makes you think that?” 

“No one keeps a photo like _that_ of someone they didn’t care about. So?” 

John leans back and plucks the photo from her hand. He rubs a thumb across it, banishing imagined dust. “Lovers. Jesus. Should have grounded you more often.” 

She tucks herself up against him and hugs him. “Too late for that now.” 

John shoves the photo back into the box and clears his throat. “I’m not going to talk about this with you.” 

“Yeah, what else is new,” she huffs before shoving away from him to pick at the box. 

He watches her. Times like these, she reminds him so painfully of Mary that it makes his chest ache. He’s tried, God knows, to be a decent father. Not like he had much in the way of example, but he’s done the best he could. But he also knows he is a hard man to love. Mary called him a stubborn mule of a man. Heartfelt confessions and tearful discussions always left him unmoored. Raising a daughter on his own for the past ten years has done little to fix that. He flexes his jaw and stares down at his hands, before letting out a slow breath. 

“Sherlock was… well, he was,” he fumbles. How to summarize Sherlock? He scratches at the back of his head. “We were friends. And-- yeah, um, I suppose I loved him.” 

Rosie’s head snaps up at this. She quietly sets down the box she was searching through and turns to him. When he dares to look in her direction, he sees a soft look on her face that is all Mary. “It must have been hard. How did he die?” 

“He… he didn’t. He’s alive. Living somewhere in the country, last I heard.” 

“But you talk about him the same way you talk about Mum.” Rosie frowns.

“I do?”

“Yeah. Like you are sad remembering, but also kind of wistful.”

“Wistful, huh? God, when did you get so bloody observant?” John shakes his head. “I suppose it’s a bit like that. I loved him, but he’s not in my life anymore.” 

“Why not? I know you loved Mum, I know. But you also didn’t keep the only picture of her you have locked away in a box for decades and get all--” She waves a hand at him as if to encompass all of whatever it was John was doing. “Soppy-eyed at the mere sight of it.” 

“I’m not soppy-eyed.” 

God, she can glare just as good as Mary could. 

“Sometimes,” he sighs, “sometimes when someone leaves your life, it feels a bit like-- like they’ve died and left a huge hole behind. I guess it was like that with me and Sherlock. We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“Why not?”

“Sherlock was-- is impossible. Bit like trying to bottle lightning. Brilliant, but terrifying.” He shakes his head, even as his mouth turns into a fond grin.

“And you haven’t talked to him in decades.” She tucks her hand in his and gives it a squeeze. He wonders where she learned to give such easy affection. 

“He came to your mum’s funeral,” he confesses to the carpet (easier to look at than her wide, innocent eyes), but returns the squeeze of her hand. 

“I don’t remember that.” 

“I may have thrown him out in a fit of rage.” He winces at the memory of throwing a vase of flowers at a wall and of Harry quickly ushering Sherlock out of the room. 

“Dad!” A quick smack to his arm punctuates her rebuke. 

“Ow. I’m not proud of it!” He rubs his forehead, trying to banish the image of Sherlock’s hurt face. “But I wasn’t in the best place at the time. Hadn’t seen him in years and he pops up unannounced like he always did. By the time I had cooled off, it just seemed silly to even try to talk to him. Not even sure where I would even start, anyway.” He sighs. Regret tinges his words. Anger, he fears, is baked into the very clay of him, but regret always seemed to follow. He likes to think it would be different now, if Sherlock showed up on his doorstep unannounced. Age and time have mellowed him, but the chance at fixing things has long passed. 

“But you miss him.” 

“Yeah.” He nods and looks up at her. “Yeah, I still do.” 

**VII.**

The house isn’t what John was expecting. It’s small and looks like something a grandmother would love; old, covered in flowers, a metal monstrosity gathering rust in the front lawn that John guesses is supposed to be some sort of art. Well-cared for, but distinctly lived in. When he let himself imagine Sherlock, in the years after his hurt wasn’t so fresh, he never could quite picture the house. Baker Street and Sherlock are linked forever in John’s mind, but he supposes this house as much of the same appeal-- a bit out of time, a bit rundown, a bit odd. 

Rosie’s questions had picked away at him, even after she had left for her trip. The house felt too huge, too quiet with her gone. Still, it had taken him a month to finally give in to his curiosity. After that, it had taken him nearly a week to track down where Sherlock was living now, and Rosie all of five minutes to find out Sherlock’s phone number. ( _Honestly, Dad, did you even try using your computer?)_ He called, of course he did. The absolute worst would have been to show up announced and turned away. No, they had had their fair share of miscommunication and unexpected visits. At least a phone call gave him a bit of a barrier, a false cocoon of safety. But he needn’t have bothered with the armor. Sherlock seemed quietly surprised, if a bit hesitant at first. The soft gravel of his voice, now aged like a fine whiskey, turned something pleasant in John’s stomach and brought forth an onslaught of half-forgotten memories. 

He pulls up into the gravel next to Sherlock’s house and waits. He stares at the wheel in front of him and plans his method of attack. Part of him wants to reverse his car out of there and chalk this all up to bad thinking. The other, much larger and louder, part begs for him to pluck up his courage and go knock on the door already. He swallows down that impulse. Sherlock had left his mark on John’s life, for good and bad. He is not angry at Sherlock, not anymore, but he also needs to be sure he is doing this for himself and not for anyone else. Not for Rosie. Not even for Sherlock.

He takes a deep breath, screws his courage, and gets out of the car. As he approaches the porch, he spies Sherlock already waiting there for him. His feet slow as he takes in Sherlock for the first time in years. Logically, he knew it had been almost fifteen years since they last spoke at Mary’s funeral. Time passes and ages everyone, and John was certainly no exception. He knew his face was a mess of wrinkles and his thin hair was now entirely silver, slowly turning white. But in his mind, Sherlock still always looked the same: cool and distant and so very untouchable. But the man before him is human, so much so. Sherlock’s hair is not quite as silver as John’s and damn him for being more the salt and pepper type, but his face is just as lined. John loses himself in the crows feet resting around Sherlock’s eyes and the deep folds around his mouth. No longer cold marble, Sherlock’s face is a tell of a long life and one (hopefully) well-lived. Sherlock seems just as lost as he looks at John, cataloguing all the changes, from minor to major. He apparently likes what he sees because he gives a small, shy smile. John realizes that Sherlock must smile more now because the wrinkles around his mouth map out a thousand smiles, both small and grand. 

Sherlock gently reaches out his hand in offering. “Your knee is bothering you. Mind the step as you come in.” 

John slowly takes his hand. As they touch, it feels much like the first time, but oh how he hopes it will be better this go around. A different Sherlock and a different John, weathered by age and experience, but here now, together.


End file.
